


New Beginnings

by ungracefulfalling



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Childhood, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Hell, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, lots of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 01:14:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1207366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ungracefulfalling/pseuds/ungracefulfalling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean soon realizes that where his father's journal ends, his story begins. Yeah, he lived the hunting life, from the age of 4, but his real life, his real story, didn't start until his father went missing. Dean sits there for a while, fiddling with the edges of his father's journal, coming to terms with himself. All those years, from 4 to freaking 26, he wasn't living in his father's shadow; he was living his father's story. And it took his father's disappearance to make him realize that it was his turn to write his own story. Now Dean's journal was his story, and he was the main character. It was just him, and his little brother, and his angel, and any other side characters that decided to drop into the fucked up charade that was his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> -Second work for the Supernatural fandom  
> -THIS WASN'T SUPPOSED TO END UP AS DESTIEL-Y AS IT DID BUT IT HAPPENED I APOLOGIZE
> 
> -I cried while writing it im so sorry

Based loosely off of this beautiful [tumblr post](http://piningcas.tumblr.com/post/77099724305/ashesinyourhair-at-the-very-very-end-dean)  

 

 

* 

No, Castiel was definitely not moving.

He laughed and tucked his arm under his stomach when Dean tried to tug on it. Dean could push and tug on his legs and arms all he wanted, but he was not going anywhere.

Dean huffed a breath of frustration, even though the fondness behind it made it sound like a calm exhale. Ever since Cas had made the choice to stay human and remain with the Winchesters, he had been getting lazier by the day. It wasn’t like Dean was complaining, though, especially in the morning. Sometimes Cas was so lazy that he didn’t bother getting up, and him and Dean could lay ( _not_ cuddle it is _not cuddling_ , okay) in bed for another few hours.

This time however, Cas was splayed out on the couch, where he had been for the past 2 hours having on-and-off naps and watching television. Sam was out at the supermarket, buying some food to stock up the practically empty bunker. Human Cas, Dean discovered, ate about as much as he slept: a lot.

Dean soon decided that tugging on his friend’s arms wasn’t going to do much to help his situation, so he put his mouth next to Cas’ ear.

“Hey, I need your help,” he said, in nothing less then a shout.

Cas thrashed, obviously not expecting the scream in his ear, flinging his arms out to the side, promptly hitting Dean in the forehead.

Cas rolled from his stomach to his back and looked up at Dean with wide eyes. Then, he placed his palm on Dean’s forehead, where a small red mark was beginning to form. The corners of his mouth quirked up and he smiled softly. “Sorry,” he quietly laughed. He then sat up, grunting and huffing in exaggerated anger.

“What do you need, Dean?” he asked. Even though his hands shoved Dean backwards and his voice had a bit of a whine to it, Dean knew he was being sincere.

Dean took the journal out of his coat’s inside pocket and gave it a small ceremonial shake in the air.

“Your fathers journal?” Cas asked.

Dean nodded.

“What about it?”

Dean fiddled with the buckle on the front and looked up at Cas shrugging a bit. "I don't know, really. I was kind of wondering, if you think, I should, you know, start my own?"

He looked down and stared at the front of the journal like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

"It depends," Cas replied, resting a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Are you going to make yours like his? A reference book about monsters and demons and ways to kill them?"

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, shrugging once again and tapping his fingers against his father's most prized possession. 

"I don't think so, Cas. I just," he looked back up into blue eyes, exasperated. "I kinda want to make it more about our life, y'know? Monsters included, of course, but I mean, me, you, and Sam went through a lot of shit that didn't exactly deal with  _just_ monsters."

Dean didn't need to explain himself anymore, becuase Cas understood exactly what he meant. Dean's life had been full of more then just monsters, until recently. He had lived through betrayal, mistrust, emotional horror, and abandonment, added to the daily life of being a hunter. Even though Cas had been part of his life for a large portion of all of it, he didn't know the  _whole_ story and he knew he probably never would know it all.

Cas gave him a smile and stood up off the couch, stretching, and walking towards the living room table, which had a few stray beers and a coat draped across it. "I know what you mean, Dean," he finally said. "I think you should do it, if you want to."

Dean nodded, putting the journal back into the pocket of his jacket. 

"Hey, Cas," he said again.

"Yes, Dean."

"You should come."

"Come where?"

"Y'know? Help me pick out a journal."

Cas smiled and grabbed the jacket off the table, realizing it was Sam's after it slung off one of his shoulders. He ignored the way it fell to the middle of his thigh and zipped it up anyway.

"Let's go then," Dean smiled opening the front door after leaving a note for Sam, saying that him and Cas had left to go get Sam's jacket dry-cleaned.

*

The town, about 10 minutes from the bunker, is small and quaint and Dean likes the calmness and serenity. The town is small and everyone knows each other. Sam, Dean, and Cas had been living in the bunker and buying from the only supermarket long enough to get to know some people. The small gift shop sat on the outskirts of the small town, and was where Dean went to get Sam's birthday cards (for half price, too, if he winked enough at the register girl, Amy.)

Dean had a feeling he definitely wasn't getting anything 50% off today, when he walked into the shop with Cas' hand clasped in his. Amy didn't look angry, but she didn't look exactly happy either. She gave him a small disappointed smile and Dean swallowed down a bit of guilt and the thought that he probably shouldn't have blatantly flirted with her to get things for half off.

He gave her a small wave and tugged Cas to the back wall of the store full of birthday cards, anniversary cards, and sympathy cards, as well as a various collection of small books and journals. Dean wanted a journal that was similar to his father's, but also different. Not an exact copy, but a blurry reflection in a broken mirror.

Cas casually ran his hands over many of the journals, always turning around to Dean to see if he had found one yet. He was picking up a light green one made of plastic when he heard Dean inhale sharply. He turned to find him with a leather bound journal in his hands. It resembled John Winchester's journal in some ways but it seemed much... _lighter._

The clasp buckle on the front of the journal was cold in Dean's hands and it was incredibly shiny compared to the dullness of the one his father's bore. The leather was a light brown compared to the beaten, almost black, cover of John's. It was similar, but far from exact. Dean turned it over in his hands, and decided that it was the one.

Dean purchased the journal, wrapped it in tissue paper, and put it into a plain gift bag, compared to the offensively sparkly ones they had available. He gave a soft smile and another wave to Amy on the way out, as Cas followed him to the Impala. 

*

When they arrived back at the bunker, they were surprised to find that Sam hadn't returned yet. Dean sat on the couch next to Cas and took his phone out of his back pocket. He didn't want to seem like the always-worried older brother, but he was anxious to why Sam hadn't come back yet.

_how long does it take u to pick up a carton of eggs n ur dumb protein shakes ?_

Dean's phone buzzes just as he sets it down on the table again.

_Actually I basically_ _need to restock the entire kitchen, Dean. You and Cas eat anything and everything. And on that note make sure you hide your boyfriend, because I have been waiting behind an old lady on line for 20 minutes, and I'm going to kill him if I can't get my car out of the parking lot._ _  
_

Dean snorts at the message and puts his phone back into his pocket. Cas seems like he is going back to his lazy ways, because his feet are draped over Dean's legs and he seemed to be content staying horizontal. Dean lifted Cas' feet off his thighs and pushed his legs back on to the couch. Dean picked up the bag that held his journal and sat at the table in the study. He was ready to take the journal out of his back when he slouched forward and felt something in the inside of his jacket. He sat up, remembering his father's journal that he had been keeping in the inside pocket. He pulled out the worn leather book and opened it, for the first time in quite a while.

At this time in his life, Dean knew anything and everything there was to know about monsters, and he didn't exactly  _rely_ on his father's written guidelines to complete a case. Flipping through his father's records actually made him laugh to himself sometimes. His father knew a lot about the supernatural world, but there was also so much he  _didn't_ know. He didn't know that angels _existed_ , which means he would have no  _idea_ how to kill or injure one if he was ever in the situation where he would need to. He vaguely wonders what his father would have thought of Cas, before, during, and after his fall from grace. He wonders what his father would think if he found out he was in love with a " _monster_." The thought of it was terrifying and thrilling all at once; defying orders never really came that easy to him.

Dean laughs as he flips through pages of how to stall the rampages of vengeful spirits and he thinks to himself how long it's been since he hunted a ghost. It feels like years, and when he really thinks about it, it probably has been years. He chuckles at pages with numerous drawings of wendigos, thinking back on early hunts with Sam, right after Jess died. All of those hunts, before everything. Before yellow eyes, and Meg, and Lilith, and Hell. And before Cas, and angels, and Ruby, and Lucifer's apocalypse. Before Samuel, and Crowley, and Purgatory, and Leviathan. Before Charlie, Kevin, and the trials, and Naomi, Metatron, and the fall. 

Suddenly, Dean doesn't feel like laughing anymore, he feels like he's dying. There's a knot of guilt and pain in his throat and his stomach is churning. Dean turns to the last page in his father's journal. It's dated three days before he left for that "hunting trip." Three days before he left to follow his leads on Yellow Eyes. Dean laughs a hollow sound,  _if only he had known._ Thinking back on his father's death is still painful, Sam's reaction especially, and Dean still feels the crushing guilt that  _he_ is the reason for his father's death. For making a fucking  _deal_ with the thing that killed his wife all those years ago, just so his son could still fight, and if it came to it, kill the youngest  _"if he had to."_

Dean soon realizes that where his father's journal ends, his story begins. Yeah, he lived the hunting life, from the age of 4, but his real life,  _his real story_ , didn't start until his father went missing. Dean sits there for a while, fiddling with the edges of his father's journal, coming to terms with himself. All those years, from 4 to  _freaking 26_ , he wasn't living in his father's shadow;  _he was living his father's story._ And it took his father's disappearance to make him realize that it was his turn to write his  _own_ story. Now Dean's journal was his story, and he was the main character. It was just him, and his little brother, and his angel, and any other side characters that decided to drop into the fucked up charade that was his life. 

Dean stops playing with his father's journal. He looks at it for a long moment and turns to the back where there is a picture of his mother taped to the back cover of the book. Dean knows he shouldn't, but he doesn't really care. He carefully removes the picture from the leather, being cautious not the rip the thin paper, and puts it on the table in front of him. Then Dean turns to the inside of the front flap, which also holds a picture. The picture is old and faded, taken soon after the death of his mother. Sam is a small chubby, baby and Dean is 4 or 5 years old. The children smile at the camera, and so does John, but Dean realizes that it looks forced and the expression behind his eyes is purely pain and sorrow. Dean puts the picture back in the flap of the book and stands up from the table. 

He walks through the living room on the way to his bedroom, finding Cas asleep on the couch again. Dean smiles to himself as he walks into his room (technically him  _and_ Cas' room) and takes one of the photo frames off of the bureau. It's a much older picture, taken by Mary, of John, Dean, and Sam. Sam is only a few months old, Dean an excitable 4 year old, and John a happy, not-a-care-in-the-world, proud father. They all look genuinely happy, and Dean decides he likes this picture a lot more than the one that his father kept in the front of his journal. He pops the picture out of the wooden frame and brings it over to the study, where he lays it next to the picture of his mom. 

Dean closes his father's journal and closes the buckle. He holds it close to his chest as he walks into the library and places it on the bottom shelf next to assorted monster reference books. Dean's heart sinks a bit when he realizes that's really all the journal is to him anymore.

He walks back into the study, grabs a pen from the drawer, and sits back down at the table. He pulls the bag from the gift shop closer to him and he isn't even sure he realizes how slowly he pulls the tissue-wrapped item out of the bag. He unwraps the tissue paper and holds the journal out in front of him. He inspects it thoroughly and finally undoes the buckle. The pages are blank and Dean is momentarily hit with the realization that he needs to fill them. He sees that, similarly to John's, this journal has a front pocket. He pulls the picture of his mom closer to him, from across the table, flips it over, and writes "Mom" on the back of it. He also grabs the picture he took from the frame in his room, flips it over, and labels it as "Dad, me, and Sammy." 

He is almost ready to start writing this shitstorm when he realizes that a picture is missing. He practically runs back to his room, and takes a newly developed picture off of his bedside table. It's a recent picture, shiny, and light. The three of them looked old, but they also looked very young. Charlie had taken it when she had visited a few weeks ago. They had watched a whole season of Game of Thrones and had absolutely nothing to do, until Charlie came up with the stupid idea that they should have a picnic. Cas had seemed all too eager to have a picnic, and Sam accepted any idea that wasn't watching another episode (he cried  _twice_.) Dean had thought the idea was stupid at first, but it ended up being a good first experience. Charlie had snapped the picture of them when they weren't looking and even though Dean begged her to, she wouldn't delete it. 

Charlie had told a really good joke or something, Dean couldn't even remember, looking back on it now. But the three of them seemed to think it was the funniest thing anyone had ever said. Sam had his head thrown back in fits of hysterics while Dean barked out loud laughs from the opposite side of the blanket. Cas was in the middle of the two brothers, fingers intertwined with Dean's on the grass. He had a hand over his mouth, and if he didn't have tears rolling down his cheeks, it wouldn't have looked like he had found it all that funny. Charlie snapped a picture while they were in the midst of laughing their asses off, claiming that in her defense, it was the happiest she'd seen the three of them look in a really long time.

Dean smiled, thinking about the memory, and carried the picture back to the table. He turns it upside down and on the back he writes "Sam and me and Cas." The title fits but it doesn't feel exactly right, so he draws a line under the words, splitting the back of the photo in half. On the bottom he scribbles out "Team Free Will."

After all three pictures are safely tucked away in the front pocket of the journal, he turns to the first blank page, fiddling the pen tip in his mouth. He sits there for a few moments and thinks about how he can possibly start this, the story of the craphole that is his life. He ponders for a few more minutes before bringing the pen to the paper.

_My name is Dean Winchester, and this is everything I know._

_  
_*

It seems like the first sentence is a time bomb, because after he writes it, he can't stop. Everything comes flowing out on to the pages. Everything about his rocky childhood, his mother's death, his admiration towards his father. He describes cooking for Sam when they were little, and shooting lessons from his father, and lessons about the stuff that's  _really_ out there. He explains how he never grew out of his fear of the dark or the monsters under his bed. He writes the words before he even thinks them, and soon he wonders if his head is even in control, or if his hand has a mind of its own. He thinks about all of the writers and journalists in the world and wonders how "writer's block" can actually be a real thing.

He only realizes he has written about 37 pages, when he comes to his father's disappearance. He thinks back on the day when John left, saying it was an easy kill. He remembers the day he decided that he'd been gone for too long and he needed to go find Sammy. He remembers the fear of rejection that his brother wouldn't want to help him, and he'd be all alone, again. The words come naturally once again, and it surprises Dean that he remembers the _freaking song_  that was playing when he pulled up at Stanford and debated about turning around and going home. It was an old one off of one of John's old Kansas record. 

_It was called_ _"Carry On Wayward Son" or something. I don't really remember why, maybe the words got to me or something, but it was the reason I got out of that car._

_  
_*

Describing his father's death was harder then he anticipated it to be. He couldn't exactly put together the feeling he got when he found out that his father had died on the hospital floor. After what he had told him, the news was a horribly confusing feeling.

_I'd never admit it to anyone but it was a mix of terror and relief. I didn't have anyone that I had to prove myself to anymore, except proving my strength to Sam. It sound horrible, but until I learned the reason why I was alive, and he wasn't, relief was the main emotion that I was feeling._

He continued to recite memories from years ago, about Sam's visions and nightmares, and about the times when they started coming true. Dean filled pages and pages with stories about Max and Andy, psycho evil twins, Ava, and the other psychics; the others just like Sam.

Dean didn't know why, considering this was not a happy time in neither him, nor his brother's, life, but Dean missed it in a way. At the time everything was so complicated and confusing, but looking back on it, Dean realized that it was one of the simplest things they would face in the years coming. 

*

He proceeded to write about a version of The Hunger Games, a demonic one, full of yellow-eyed demons, and girls hanging from their scapulas on windmills. A version where there was one victor, one had to kill the others, and if no one killed; the master would kill for them. A version where there was a favorite to win, a favorite that had been chosen a long time before the plan had been thrust into action.

He wrote about holding his baby brother, whose life was cut short by another, both reaching for the same goal. He wrote about summoning a whore to a Devil's Trap, and contracts etched into skin by the locking of lips. He wrote about Devil's Gates and suffocating black smoke that would wrap its claws around your neck until you died or surrendered. He wrote about a magical gun, that would end everything once and for all and he wrote about seeing yellow and making eye contact only with a bullet.

He wrote about deadly wreaths that smelled pretty around Christmas but would do nothing but bring the "Anti-Claus" to your home. He wrote about final Christmases and making _"every last minute count."_

He wrote about bad luck and good luck and hot, sarcastic British snobs that will rob you of everything you've got. He wrote of hellhounds and hallucinations, "friendly demons", and little girls in blood-spattered white dresses. He wrote of screaming and a clock striking midnight and vicious claws and blood...so much blood. And he wrote about death, an old friend.

*

Hell was not a subject that he mentioned to anyone. Hell didn't happen as far as he was concerned. But he stared at the blank piece of paper that followed the page where he had talked about invisible dogs and razor-sharp claws. Hell was a part of his memory that he never wanted to see ever again for as long as he lived. But it seems that if you're writing, and you haven't stopped, you won't stop. And then memories were words on paper, and Dean's mind couldn't catch up to his hands.

_The knives and the claws and anything sharp, really, dug into my flesh, taking skin and marrow and bone with it. They carved everywhere: my arms, my legs, my face, my torso. The pain was constant, never ending, and there was one, the main one, who always came back to ask this question. Alistair, he called himself, and he would always ask me if I was up for torture. I would spit in his face, and he seemed to think I was funny. Every day after he came, it would get worse. Every time I denied him, he would make sure I was reminded of my decision. Soon, the pain became too much and I gave in._

Dean didn't want to think about what he had done to innocent souls. He realized his hands were shaking as he got through the second paragraph.

_There were innocent people that came onto my rack, some young, some old. At first, Alistair kept a close watch on me, as I dug knifes and scalpels into young men and women, ripped out chunks of skin from their stomachs and arms, to have them amazed as they healed over, only to start the torture process again. Soon I began to like it too much. I got off on the way knifes and saws would rip into flesh and bone, the way it had to mine only 5 years previously. I became Alistair's apprentice, cutting and mutilating souls until they agreed to become what I had, or until they barely were anything at all._

Soon there were wet blots all over the page and Dean couldn't see straight ahead of him. He didn't realize he was shaking or sobbing until there were strong arms around him and he was buried into someone's chest.

*

Cas had heard the sobs when he was woken up by British chef cursing on the television. He found Dean crying over his journal, ink running down the page from being covered in salt water droplets. Cas pulled Dean into his arms and let him stay there as sobs racked his body and he shook like a freezing animal. Soon, the crying stopped, and all that was left was a small shiver. Cas placed a kiss on the top of Dean's head and leaned over to grab the journal Dean had just been crying over. Dean grabbed his wrist in the process.

"Don't read that," he said, voice cracking, even though he tried to keep it firm.

"Dean," Cas said, sounding defeated. Dean gave him a watery stare, and Castiel knew that it wasn't a good idea to try to start something right now, so he decided not to push Dean to let him read what had gotten him so upset. Human emotions still baffled the ex-angel somewhat and he didn't want to make Dean more upset than he already was. 

"I know all of you, everything you've done, and I still love you," he breathed, Dean's shaking slowly calming down as he wrapped his arms around Castiel's middle.

Dean had stopped shaking for the most part, and he was breathing deeply to prevent any more convulsing. Cas kissed his forehead before he went back to the living room, having said all that he possibly could, for at least right now.

Dean did not want to continue writing, afraid that continuing may trigger some other bad memories down the line. But he did want to finish what he had started, so he sat back down with his pen in his hand once again. The paper was a bit wet from tears, but clearly legible. Dean brought the pen to the paper where he had ended his last sentence.

_Thinking back on it now, I assume that is how demons are formed. After you're tortured and convinced to do the torture yourself, you do it until you enjoy it, and when you enjoy it enough, you lose it. When you're down there long enough, you lose your humanity._

Dean doesn't know how he's going to continue this journal, fill it with stories from his past. He probably won't be able to do it without bad memories coming back from the grave to bite him in the ass. But he does know what he will have, as he fills the leather book with his stories, and it's who he writes the last sentence about, before falling asleep over the book.

 

_But I wasn't down there "long enough." Because one day there was this light..._

                 


End file.
